Bubbles in the Darkness
by Alley Cat Sunflower
Summary: Formerly called Reflections of Darkness. Davesprite muses on the meaning of death, since he's experienced too many different variations and heard too many different accounts for him to come up with a single, solid definition of what it means. Might be a little rambly. Slight Davesprite/Jade. I do not own the cover art or Homestuck! T for fairly dark themes.


Death. It was revered by some, scorned by others, sought by a few and feared by most. But however they felt about it, no one really knew what lay beyond the veil, as it were. Philosophers theorized; religious folk guessed; atheists estimated. Everyone always pretended they had a plan, a desire strong enough for life after death that it would _create _the heavens for them when their soul departed into the endless void. They displayed an almost unnatural reverence for the eternal permanence that was death. But then, none of them had experienced it so many times, nor in so many ways as Davesprite Strider.

As a sprite, the game alerted him as to the demises in his session—and any sessions intertwined with it. Furthermore, he knew things about the game inherently, and realized its bloodthirsty, sadistic nature, even better than any who ever played Sburb or any of its infernal incarnations. He didn't have any sight extending to the future, yet he could feel in his heart just by looking at the others that someday, the game would assassinate them as well, and then he would be left with nothing where their presences had been. Just emptiness. Forever.

Before his prototyping, he had already done a fair amount of exploring alternate, doomed timelines. Each time, he had learned the hard way what it was to die. In his case, he found it to be a quick, horrified realization that he had done something wrong, and then a hot, wet feeling as the blood soaked slowly through his formal shirt, or a warm gash opened in his throat, or a loud snap and then deafening silence as his neck broke—

No. He had resolved not to think of all the multitudes of doomed Daves that resided in his subconscious; they plagued his dreams enough. Their aching half-memories of their earlier lives, and then their murders, rubbed his mind raw every night.

It was something unique to him, though, the flash of dread and then feeling the life leave him, some times more quickly than others. For the other Hero of Time he knew of, it was an associate, a welcome and expected guest, even a friend, as she flitted between the dream bubbles. But then, she acted as guide and savior for the lost souls wandering in the Furthest Ring without purpose nor memory of their waking life. She'd heard voices all her life, perhaps the voices of those she now herded.

He knew, though, however vaguely, that Megido had been well acquainted with death at an early age. One she thought she could trust—one she loved, even—was the one to commit the crime, though he had been manipulated by another source to do so. Much like Davesprite remembered how his alpha self had been innocently searching for frogs one day when Jack appeared, and Jade tried to shoot him, but ended up putting countless bullets in Dave's back. Davesprite had felt every bullet pierce, heard every hiss as the hot shells were discarded and fell into the snow, turning it into lukewarm water almost instantly.

Then there were those who had sustained wounds enough that Davesprite was surprised they didn't covet death. Nitram had been thrown off a cliff, rendered paraplegic, and yet somehow, kept going. His case was admirable, that of a true fairytale hero: he could have wished for death, yet didn't, but when his time came to face it, he embraced it and accepted it. His death had been a friendly one, to be sure. He hadn't been seized by terror or indeed killed in any kind of gruesome way. Davesprite laughed a little to himself as he thought of how he sounded. Just a simple stab through the heart. So little pain to it. He shuddered a little as he remembered some of his own deaths, writhing in agony, tortured—

Captor had been a special case. Death favored him, it seemed. Gave him two spare lives besides his first, both of which he used up. The first hadn't been his fault, and wasn't that true of them all—sometimes you just couldn't help it; the factors were out of your control, and you ended up dead, even if death itself gave you an extra chance. Then he had summoned the meteor, controlling it with his mysterious majyyk enerjjies—Davesprite wondered how he even stood it. How could he stand knowing he was going to start bleeding, slowly, from every part of him—spill his precious heart's blood, not know his second life was alive, sacrifice and know he was sacrificing, allow death to come to him so willingly?

Death even seized the innocent, the ones trying to avenge those they loved, already clutched in the cold, lifeless embrace of darkness. Leijon had attacked, but it had been on the murderer's terms that she wounded him, and then, only the twirling clubs of a mad clown were left to display or deny mercy. He shivered as he stared out at the shimmering green-tinted shadows of the Yellow Yard, imagining too well the terror she must have felt, lying helpless upon the ground, knowing death stalked her as surely as her friend was already taken. And Peixes—her situation hadn't been all that different, though she failed to harm her killer in any way, and she had been trying to prevent the unraveling of a carefully maintained timeline, as would happen without his death. A noble cause indeed!

And yet sometimes, death gave back with no explanation, no words. Maryam's supposedly last ragged breath left her as the blood seeped out upon the floor of the lab in which she had been murdered. It was not long after that when she walked free again, emanating a soft white glow, repulsing the shadows wrapped all around her. It was as though death itself parted for her, allowed her a second chance despite its rumored finality, bent the rules because of her purity of purpose. But the thirst for blood consumed her, as well; because death could not hold her for its own, it made her an instrument of draining the lifeblood of others. Davesprite gave a grim smile. Irony had become much less cool since he had become a sprite.

Then there were those who were death's accomplices. Serket had directed death directly to its quarry many a time, and as a result, she received just as many punishments for her trouble—yet bore them all well, even the first of her fatalities. Upon being mortally wounded the first of two times, she knew exactly how to make the best of her situation, yet refused this one time to take control and make someone else into a killer in her name. An ironically pure thought indeed! In the end, Nitram had been too weak to murder her, even to put her out of her misery—and it was because of Pyrope that she died a second time, in her illusion of greatness, her frenzied estimation of what was right. Death had treated her well indeed, claiming her even despite the myriad of times she had helped it sweep up others. It was truly an unpredictable, irrational entity.

Those killed on others' orders, such as when Zahhak was slain by Makara, was perhaps one of the more pitiable varieties of death, reflected Davesprite, curling his tail thoughtfully. It was unable to be judged; was it primarily the killer's fault, or he (or she) who sent the unfortunate bastard into battle? Death did not care. It ruled with a metal fist. Some times it was sharper than others; sometimes it could be easily bent; sometimes it made you mad if you were exposed to it too often—a light orange tear dropped to his pure-white tail as he smiled a little, bitterly.

The death of a murderer was always interesting, particularly if they themselves were then murdered, such as Ampora. Davesprite often wondered at the idea of Hell, a place reserved for those who sin. If you could justify your sins, would you still go there? Death seized without examining its prey too thoroughly; it wanted nothing more than to have as many as possible, without regard for their actions in life, be they heroic or evil. Hell, then, as an extension of death, could not exist. And who was to judge the sins he had committed? He had slain countless numbers of adversaries in many different timelines, some of which were intelligent, like humans, but also wanted to kill him; was that then justified, or should he have lain down his sword and resolved never to fight again for fear of descending to a fiery hall for all eternity? He shook his head a little as he wondered.

Even his friends had died many a time before. John had never died heroically nor justly, thank God—if he had, he'd be gone forever—funny how that worked. Death would take only those who deserved it, or who deserved anything _but _that. It would ravish everything eventually, but it would give back a select few who had died the death of a coward, or the death of one who fought in a sideless war. Davesprite stretched his wings, wondering what would happen if a sprite died. Would they ascend to the god tiers, if placed upon a quest bed? Would they just cease to exist, without a place in a dream bubble since they were no longer a proper Sburb player? Nothingness forever, without a consciousness with which to perceive it, struck him as far more morbid than any number of deaths ever could.

Rose was an enigma; she flirted with death, had died twice in her own right, yet found it a fascinating subject rather than a deterrent from her dark studies—at least, she had the last time he had checked in on her. She was a dangerous adversary, one unafraid of the grim sciences or the summoning of powers that could easily summon, in turn, death itself. One who had so much command over the entity could hardly expect to be frightened of it.

Jade. Davesprite let out a long sigh. She had had the fortune to die only twice—he laughed a little; "_only_": once, when Prospit crashed into Skaia and she sacrificed herself to save John—how terrifying it must have been, seeing the ground so far beneath you, but getting closer and closer before finally crashing, and then everything being all over. The second time, she was fortunate enough never to guess what had been about to happen. He envied her innocence, her sweet caring innocence.

"Nightmares again?" asked her voice softly, startling him out of his thoughts; his hand was on the hilt of his sword before his sensitive ears recognized her, standing delicately in the shadows. He nodded faintly, lost deeper in thought than he had ever been before. Mortality depressed him, but there were two kinds of melancholy: the kind that made him truly sad, and the kind that allowed the deep well of emotion to be tapped. This was fortunately a case of the latter.

One more tear slid down his face as he gathered Jade close to him, after she approached. He wasn't sure he could bear being with her, since he wasn't sure he'd be able to cope if anything happened to her. The course of action was more unclear than it had ever been, and he wanted nothing more than just to hold her forever, like death—no, he mustn't think of such things—

"It's going to be okay," sighed Jade, ruffling a hand through his hair with sorrow-filled eyes. "I promise."


End file.
